Breakfast with Belgium
by Lunar Iris
Summary: Belgium defends Canada to England concerning The Battle of the Scheldt. De-anon from the Kink-Meme.


Another Hetalia Kink-meme de-anon…after a bit of editing. This particular meeting takes place at a random time that is somewhat in the present, use your imagination.

Note: Use of human names, odd vague historical, cultural and political references, and somewhat snarky!Canada's internal monologue.

Manon = Belgium  
Lars = Netherlands (even though I don't like the name of Lars for the Netherlands, I couldn't think of anything better at the time)

I don't own Hetalia. Now on with the story.

**Breakfast with Belgium**

Canada took a deep breath and scanned the quaint little café for a place to sit, desperation tugging down the corners of his mouth. The bottom of the plate of pancakes in his hand had become uncomfortably hot as he couldn't transfer it; he juggled a mug of coffee and his travel-sized bottle of maple syrup in his other hand. He turned around, careful not to disturb the delicate balance. He was running late going to breakfast and getting to the café.

England had probably given up on him, and finished eating already. And, there he was. The older nation sat at a table for two, surrounded by a several other nations, and in the middle of an animated conversation—America occupied the other chair, his boisterous laugh echoing through the room.

So much for being guaranteed a seat. Such was the hazard of having a sensitive invisibility trigger: nations pushed you aside in the haste to vacate meeting rooms, more nations pushed you to the back of café counter lines, and your own family wouldn't even wait a few measly minutes to eat breakfast with you. Canada let loose a sigh.

Close to either resigning himself to a place on the floor or using one of the café's short decorative pillars to rest his plate, he spotted a vacant seat next to another nation at the far corner near the windows. From the positioning of an artistically placed fern, he could not identify the nation.

Canada didn't really care who it was at this point. He wanted off his feet, and wanted to rid his poor left hand of the hot plate. Most of all, he wanted to devour the pancakes like there was no tomorrow. He would put up with Russia's requests 'to become one.' He would put up with Cuba's mistaken assaults, thinking he was his younger brother. He would even put up with his brother, America himself, and a table full of hamburgers, fries and soda. He would put up with a table all three countries occupied just to eat those wonderful smelling pancakes that continued to taunt his nose. He couldn't, for the life of him, figure out why the plate was so hot in the first place.

"Excuse me?" Canada announced his presence, clearing his throat. "I'm Canada."

The nation stopped with loaded fork posed halfway to her mouth, and looked up at him. Oh, it was Belgium! Her eyes widened. The ghost of a smile graced her face, quickly dispelled by a flat look of apparent displeasure. "I know who you are, Canada." She huffed, and smiled at him once again. Perhaps her chagrin had been disappointment instead. He could never be sure if other nations would look past him or not. Stupid invisibility.

"Go ahead, sit down. Sit down! That plate must be hot."

"May I please sit...with...Thank you Belgium!" Canada couldn't hide the grin of relief that stretched across his face.

"My pleasure." She grinned, Canada noticed through half-lidded eyes, as he set down his breakfast, sliding into the booth seat across from her. She stuffed her forkful of waffle into her mouth rather unceremoniously, and chewed as though the morsel offended her. "Sorry that you missed my brother. He just left. Lars would have enjoyed speaking with you, I'm sure."

Meaning that she wouldn't? No sense dwelling on that. Typical.

"How is Lars?"

"You should know. You two talk quite a bit."

He nodded. "Are the waffles here that bad?" He asked after swallowing a heavenly bite of his pancakes.

"Huh?" She raised another bite of waffle to her mouth, and stopped the motion halfway yet again.

"You don't seem to be enjoying your breakfast. Has something upset you?" Belgium blinked up at Canada. "Is it the food? This was supposed to be a very good café, which was why I recommended it. Best in this section of Ottawa. I prefer their pancakes though."

"Oh! No!" She sputtered, putting her fork down. "They're quite good." Her eyes narrowed. "Didn't I teach you how to make waffles?"

"Well, no Francis did. Th-they're nice, occasionally, for something different. I haven't eaten them in a while, because…" He shifted in his seat an unpleasant memory. Politics did that. "Well, I usually just stick to pancakes." She offered him a polite, confused smiled, when he paused and they both took a sips of their coffee. "I'm very glad you like the waffles here, though. I thought they had taken them off the menu. Although, I requested them after...well, after. After I chased Ludwig off for you… It was very kind of you to-"

Belgium's gaze snapped to the end of the table, cutting Canada off mid-babble. She choked violently, slamming her mug down, sloshing the liquid, but didn't spill. She snatched up her napkin to cover her face nearly to her eyes, coughing into it.

Had he said something wrong? "Manon! Are you going to be okay?" Canada asked, reaching across the table to grasp Belgium's hand and give it a comforting squeeze, unsure if he accomplished the goal. It only seemed to increase her distress. He hoped that he wouldn't have to give her the Heimlich. He wasn't sure if her eyes could widen any more than that and manage to stay in their sockets.

"Am I interrupting something?" A familiar British voice cut through to Canada's attention with an icy blast of badly pent irritation, and undisguised impatience.

Belgium freed her hand quickly, leaving Canada's still resting on her side of the table. Slowly his glance strayed up to England, standing alongside the table, his teacup clutched with white knuckles. It was only England; grouchiness and mood swings were standard operating procedure. Looking into Canada's smiling face, his eyes softened. He lowered himself to the booth seat and scooted the younger nation over with his hip.

"I've been looking for you, poppet. It's not like you to miss eating with me." He took a sip of his tea and set it down onto the table.

Canada looked down at the table, failing to keep his lower lip from poking out into a childish pout. His hand retracted back in front; he wrung his hands together. He could just feel his England's smile widen. Still, it was horribly awkward. "I looked for you. B-but your t-table was already full. A-and, lot of other nations were there t-talking to you." Arthur was talking to friends. That was ridiculous. He had asked England about breakfast, after all, not the other way around. A month ago. That morning he didn't expect him to remember the invitation.

"I had tried to save the chair at the table for you. You could have made America move. What took you so long, love? I lost track of time or I would have gone looking for you sooner." Easy words to say.

"I was h-held up in the line. Several people skipped me. Why couldn't you have just...? I'm sorry England." His excuse failed on his lips. Why would England wait for him? Why would he have seen him trying to squeeze past the other nations to catch up with him—to walk with him to the café? Why would he act any differently than he always did?

Canada glanced up at Belgium. She had not resumed her breakfast. The red blush that colored her cheeks had remained and turned into a deep scarlet flush, but the watery sheen in her eyes had vanished. Oh, good, she must have recovered from choking. Her mouth had set into a small line, and her eyes twitch between him and England. This was embarrassing. Why couldn't England have just found him back at the meeting? Her scrutinizing gaze left squirming in his seat. He was better than this. He didn't usually act this way. Why around Belgium? Water pooled in the corners of his eyes. Just looking up at Belgium through his eyelashes reminded him that he could be better than this. During World War II, he had definitely been better than this. He didn't snivel then. He wrung his hands tighter to keep them from shaking in shame. Why couldn't he just stop this already!

"It's alright, love." England tipped back his teacup, and set it down, emptied, with a barely audible clink. "Come on. Let's head back to the meeting."

Oh, no…England just didn't.

He leaned closer to the outside of the booth seat, a signal for him to move.

Oh, but England did.

England reached over to slip his hand around Canada's upper arm, squeezing the muscle. His bicep did not yield—would not yield—under the firm, spindly-fingered grip of the personification of the United Kingdom and Northern Ireland. He could flex that muscle just a bit to remind England what it could do, which further reminded Canada not to take his own strength lightly. He was strong, as well. For all the loose clothing he wore every day, and the tailored suit he currently wore, Canada kept up with brother to the South, after all. He was just as muscular as his brother was, almost; he just didn't need show it off. Not that he was going to do anything about it; this was England. And, he would do very nearly anything England asked. Until after the meeting, then he could just tackle the older nation down underneath him and demonstrate how easily he could turn those tables. Perhaps he would suggest a game of something or other: football, rugby, lacrosse. He could trick him onto the ice, but that would never happen—England was far too smart for that. He could just have England choose the sport and his own way to suffer. Or perhaps something else. No one separated Canada from pancakes without receiving retribution sometime, someway, somehow. England could deny it all he wanted, but Canada knew he enjoyed when he played rough. He would even be patient about it, but he would be unwaveringly forceful.

Canada gave a longing glance to his plate. He only had three bites! And those were good pancakes. He should have just gotten them to go; no one paid him enough attention to care that he would be eating during the meeting. He nodded to the elder nation and made a motion that he would move when England was ready to vacate the booth.

After the meeting, England was going down.

"Wait," Belgium stared with wide eyes and leaned across the table toward them. One of her hands settled, soft and calming, over Canada's nervously wringing fingers and the other clutched England's forearm, poised to pull the younger nation along with him. They both paused. "You just sat down, Matthew. You should at least finish your breakfast."

"We should all be going," England replied, probably more coldly than he had intended. His hand grasping Canada's loosen perceptively. "The meeting will resume soon."

"Come on, England. Canada barely started his breakfast. And, I'm sure that's not his fault. I see how the other countries are. How you are. Just let him eat."

"What are you implying, Belgium?" England stared at her, his eyebrows squeezed together.

"Manon, really, it's okay." Matthew separated his hands under Belgium's grasp and held hers between his own.

"They can get along without you…and me…for a little while, Canada. England, you can go on. We're going to finish."

Canada glanced at England's arm, noticing how deeply her nails now sunk into the flesh underneath his sleeve. Her long, nicely manicured nails. It looked painful despite the long sleeves; he would hate to have been the recipient of that death grip.

"Everyone's presence is required. You know that." He made no move to remove her grip.

"Well…" Canada began. Belgium's invitation was tempting. His stomach was ready to bellow from hunger any moment. No, he would go to the meeting now, and give England his reminder later.

Denying him food like that. Yeah, he would tap into hockey mode—no doubt about it. Denying him pancakes was bad news. Nice, warm, maple syrup covered pancakes, sitting in front of him, getting cold. He screwed up his mouth, unable to hide his agitation any longer.

Why was he thinking of getting up again?

"We need to go represent our countries. You've read the schedule. America has another fool- brained scheme in the making. It's technology based. You know how certain Asian nations are with their technology, as well. The world needs all the opposition to American's nonsense, and machine wooing of them we can get. Japan is sure to take to it. We all need to go." England tugged on his arm again.

If it wasn't for his stomach being deprived of pancakes that would be laughable. Oh yes, Japan would take to it, he and America had seen to that. And, it wasn't a 'fool-brained' scheme, because it was a joint Canadian-American project.

"Oh," Belgium released them both to cross her arms over her chest. "Oh, so you want Canada to represent his country to the world now? How magnanimous of you, England."

England sputtered.

Canada resisted the urge to blink like an idiot or let his jaw drop to the floor. She had merely sounded shocked before, but those words flowed from her with undisguised revulsion.

"What are you implying, Belgium?" England's voice dropped to a whisper in curiosity.

What was going on here? Canada's gaze buffeted between the two older countries.

"Canada, you can speak up for yourself. What do _you_ want to do?"

"Belgium?" England growled. "Matthew, come on."

Well, he wanted to finish his pancakes, of course. He already knew about his brother's 'scheme.' It was about underwater robotics. That was fun, and it would be useful. He guessed England had forgotten that it was a joint project. His brother couldn't start without him anyway; Canada had the flash drive on which their presentation was stored in his pocket.

He had spaced for out a moment. Belgium must have taken his silence as a prompt to continue her tirade.

"I'm talking about the Scheldt."

Canada had missed if she said anything before that.

"What about it?" England huffed.

"You didn't want Canada along then, did you?"

"I helped at the Battle of the Scheldt." Canada managed to keep as far from a whine as possible, uncomfortable with the direction this conversation had taken.

"You did more than just help, Canada." Her attention snapped back to him; he wished it had not. "My country, and my brother's, would have been lost to Germany if not for you and your fearless people."

"Yes love, you fought well," England smiled over at him, and squeezed his arm gently. "As did we all. It was a fucking mess."

"Never thought I'd hear you say that, England."

"What the bloody hell do you mean?" His eyes bugged out ever so slightly underneath his bushy eyebrows.

"He fought well, yes, of course he did. Afterward, you didn't let him enjoy his victory, did you? Did you, England?"

Canada felt quite lost again, and there was a growing feeling of anxiety in his stomach, especially as he saw her drop one of her arms to let a few fingers brush against the gun sitting at her hip. He hadn't noticed that before her not-so-subtle gesture. Yeah, the slight had hurt—and wasn't slight at all. It had hurt more than the many wounds he received on the battlefield.

England merely growled his response. He must have just noticed the gun, as well.

"A lot of Brass were there to celebrate the victory. A lot of Brass. Nations, generals, and so on. But not Canada. I don't know why they were deprived of the honor. You should have had the decency to invite Canada to enjoy his victory! But you didn't!" She was red in the face again, and struggling to keep her voice down. "But, not Canada! Canada was not allowed to be there? Why? I still ask myself why!" She built up to a pronounced growl mid-tirade, but became deadly quiet again.

Her green eyes bored into England, daring him to argue the point further. He merely swallowed hard. Canada could hear it. He had no answer for her.

In what could have been an anticlimactic exclamation point to her argument, she rested her back against the booth and took another bite of her breakfast. He could have sworn he heard her mutter, "Feel free to stay and celebrate it with me now," around the large bite of gooey chocolate and waffle. She had closed her eyes, though, so there was no way to know for sure. She had rendered England silent.

"Hmmm," Canada rubbed thumb and forefinger along his chin a moment, glancing over at England again.

With his opposite hand, he reached over and gripped the hand that still held his arm. He tightened his fingers around the wrist hard enough that the older nation would definitely feel it, but just shy of using force that could break bones. Canada knew that he could very easily break the bones; England knew it too. He yanked England's hand from his arm in a move that would have rivaled America's shows of strength.

"Now," he hummed, picking up fork and knife, and returning to his plate of pancakes, "I believe that Manon and I were having breakfast. Sorry, Arthur, but the meeting will have to do without us for a while."

He did not watch Arthur leave, but he could certainly hear the sputtering grumbles of shock and surprise from the personification of the Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland as he departed the café alone.

"I know this is a long time in coming. My leader said it at the time, but my country thanks you, Canada, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart."

"It was my pleasure. I am glad I could be of service."

Matthew Williams's smile radiated. It was nice to be appreciated.

**History Notes:**

As with the original request, Belgium defending Canada, inspired by the man at 6:30 of this video, watch?v=9kD_Y8-H9b4 (you may have to turn your volume up). The video is really interesting.

Also referenced, very vaguely: The Waffle and Canada's politics

Thank you for reading! If you see any errors that I missed, please point them out to me, so I can fix them.


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